


Sanity's Requiem

by temporalDecay



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Horror, Body Horror, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Horror, Psychological Horror, eldritch horror, everyone dies, everyone kicks ass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:45:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of <em>Eternal Darkness: Sanity's Requiem</em> in an AU that mixes elements from the game and extensive Homestuck mythology. Originally intended for Ladystuck, hence the all girl cast, except real life happened and I didn't get to submit on time for the challenge.</p><p>Basically the ladies of Homestuck kicking Eldritch abomination ass and trying to save reality itself in the process, while navigating a labyrinthine plot that sprawls across Earth, Alternia and the Furthest Ring.</p><p>Also, screaming at monsters to <em>eat Pargon, motherfucker!</em> Because that's always cathartic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: A Death In The Family

**Author's Note:**

> So Ladystuck Blind's theme was darkfic and I was all over that like white on rice, but real life kicked my butt and I didn't get a chance to finish. The good news is that this is mostly all finished so I'll probably be able to keep a weekly update schedule ~~watch me jinx myself somehow~~ throughout summer. It's not that long, though it does cover the basic plot of the game entirely. Though, don't worry, even if you're familiar with the game, I've hopefully put in a few interesting spins to make it worth your time.
> 
> Special thanks to Choco and Proserpine-in-Phases for sitting through my nonsense.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rose Lalonde begins to realize there was more to his mother than she ever knew; a little too late, however.

_This is not a nice story._

_What happened to me, my family and my allies, it certainly wasn’t _nice_. But it’s also not _our_ story, for all we made it with our own hands. I wish there was someone else to tell it and I wish no one would have to hear it. But this is not my story, or the story of my family or my allies. This is the story of humanity and trollkind, both, bound by something that predates us all. Something terrible and dark looms above us, stretching across the universe to destroy us. It’s okay if you don’t believe me. It’s okay if you call me crazy. There have been few of us, hiding in the shadows, struggling to stop the machinations of doom hanging over our heads, trolls and humans alike. You don’t have to believe me, because what you believe matters jack fuck all in the grand scheme of things._

_My name is Roxy Lalonde, and this is the story… no, the **history** I know, recorded in this book, so that it’s never lost. My time is past, now, and the weight of responsibility now falls to my daughter, last in a long, complicated line that has less to do with blood and more to do with duty._

_She is the last of my line, and unknown to her, the last hope for troll and mankind alike._

  


* * *

  


**Prologue: A Death in the Family.**

  


* * *

  


You dream of monsters. 

This is not, as a whole, a new experience. You have always had a proclivity for the arcane and mysterious, flirting constantly with the supposed forces at the edge of reality. So it’s not that you’re dreaming monsters, per se, that surprises you. 

It is the fact you’re aware of yourself and they’re trying to _kill_ you. 

The room, you realize, as you slam a new magazine into the gun and then take careful aim for the head of the shambling, groaning corpse heading your way, is your old room, back at your mother’s estate. You ponder the psychological implications of the scene as a second zombie – you’re dreaming _zombies_ , for crying out loud – approaches you, its body a dried out husk wrapped in the ratty remains of what you suppose must have been a shroud. So, you recapitulate, as you shoot that one right between the eyes as well, you are dreaming zombie mummies in the middle of your childhood room and no matter how much you try to force the dream to shift, you can’t change it. 

You take the logical, scientific approach and decide to blame your roommate for this. After all, wasn’t it he the one who insisted on making you watch those dreadful, dreadful zombie movies? You spare a thought of wistfulness for the days of the vampire craze, or even the troll craze. Back when there was a sense of… dignity, about the undead and the occult. Now they’re little but romantic fodder and an excuse for people like you to ask people like John when they first realized they were having necrophilic urges. You could probably write a paper about this, you think, and hope you’ll remember the dream when you wake up, so you can do just that. So many of your academic triumphs are the result of judicious use of dreams, you don’t even remember a time when you couldn’t control them. 

You get a reminder, as your gun runs out of bullets and you find yourself without ammo to replace them. You feel a twitch of annoyance as said ammo fails to appear in your hand when you summon it, and then use that annoyance to try and break the wall of the dream, but to no avail. Dreams, at least _your_ dreams, are bubbles floating in nothingness. Usually you merely pop the bubble when you tire of the dream and go find one you like better. You try to stretch your consciousness, as you know how, searching for the edge of the dream, but it’s not there. That’s another thing that’s never happened before. You cry out, when the zombie-mummy-monster-things get close enough to grab you, pulling on your arm hard enough it slides off its socket with a gruesome sound. You cry out because it _hurts_. You try to pull away as skeletal fingers wrap around your throat and your limbs, nailless tips nonetheless sharp enough you feel your skin tear open as you struggle. You choke as blood gushes out of your throat like a torrent, and the room vanishes around you. You fall into the void, and as you fall, you see a woman falling with you. Except she’s not falling, exactly, it’s like she’s following your fall without moving. And then she snarls, reaching out as if to give you a second helping of torn-out throat. 

“The rats will eat your eyes!” She screeches at you, blue eyes burning with something you feel quite untroubled calling madness. You notice, however, that she’s wearing the same brooch that your mother does, centered just below her throat. The white, ivory sun with a stylized L in the center. “The darkness is near!” 

Then bars come into being, followed by the door that holds them, and she fades back, as if pulled into a different place. A white room, you think, with nice, cushioned walls. 

You wake up in your bed, uncomfortably sweaty, to find your cellphone ringing. 

“Well,” you tell no one in particular, as you gather your bearings and decide to ignore the burning in your throat, where phantom pains still throb. “That was melodramatic.” You pick up the phone as it vibrates noisily on your nightstand and frown somewhat at the unfamiliar number. “Yes?” 

“Miss Lalonde?” An unfamiliar voice asks, with enough awkwardness that you realize this might not be a prank after all. 

“Speaking,” you say, shifting to sit up properly, “who is this?” 

“Inspector Latula Pyrope, from the Pawtucket police department,” the woman says, “there has been… an accident, Miss Lalonde. With your mother.” 

“I see.” You take a moment to inhale slowly, feeling something cold and resentful curling in your gut as thoughts of your mother’s drunken escapades parade through your mind. You let out your breath in a soft sigh and refuse to take out your feelings on the woman across the line. “I will be there as soon as humanely possible.” 

“I am sorry, Miss Lalonde.” 

You swallow hard. 

“Me too.” 

  


* * *

  


You pay the taxi and step out, right outside the main gate. Inside, further up the driveway, you count four police cars, lights flashing obnoxiously against the tall, white walls. It’s early, still, a few hours before dawn. You huddle inside your coat and walk up to the door, unable to shake a strange sense of foreboding. As you reach the steps, a troll steps forward to meet you, towering over you nearly two feet. Her hair is short and straight, with her horns projecting almost horizontally at each side of her head. You will never cease to be fascinated by the multitude of shapes troll horns come in. 

“Miss Lalonde?” She asks, tilting her head slightly. You nod as you shake her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, I am Inspector Pyrope.” 

“Likewise,” you say, smiling thinly. “Though I’m afraid these are not the most fortuitous circumstances.” 

She purses her lips, grimacing. 

“Quite.” She steps back, motioning you to follow her. “I am sorry the circumstances are so unpleasant, Miss Lalonde.” 

“As I said before, so I am.” A shiver runs down your spine as you step pass the doorway, though you try to hide it. “Please, let us get this over and done with.” 

Pyrope nods slowly, leading you wordlessly towards the library. You spare a look at the foyer, but notice only two small clusters of policemen, huddled in different corners and sharing notes in hushed tones. The lack of any member of the staff worries you a little. For all your mother spent most of your childhood in a drunken stupor, every member of the staff adored her. That something could happen to her, and none of them would be around to help or even just witness it is strange. While you ponder such thoughts, Pyrope stops, just before you take a turn into the body of the library proper. The walls are covered in bookshelves full of books on the most varied subjects. This was always your most beloved room in all the estate, where you could sit down and lose yourself in the world of words. You are certain, though you don’t know why, that you will never look at the room the same way again. 

“I’m sorry,” Pyrope says for the third time, “but be warned, it’s not a pleasant sight.” 

You resist the urge to squint at her. Trolls are, by nature, almost inured to the common horrors that still make most humans flinch. To have a troll tell you that makes you set your jaw and brace yourself for the worst. You nod wordlessly, and follow her towards the fireplace. You feel another shiver, as you see the big, bloodstain sheet on the floor. A sense of unreality assaults you, as Pyrope kneels by the figure under the sheet and pulls it off to reveal— 

“Miss Lalonde?” Her voice is surprisingly kind, though you don’t really register her tone. “Is this your mother?” 

Her body has been broken most gruesomely, you note, as loud, roaring silence floods your mind. Her head is missing and her limbs are barely attached. Her white suit is drenched in her blood, with only the brooch untouched by it. You feel yourself sway and refuse to do it, hands clenching into fists at your sides as a yawning chasm of rage opens up inside you and devours the disgust and the fear and everything else that might get in the way. 

“She is, she’s wearing her brooch. A family heirloom,” you say, curtly, turning your eyes to meet Pyrope’s ridiculous red glasses. “Why didn’t you check dental records, Inspector Pyrope, or handprints?” 

“Because her head is gone,” she says, the barest hint of frustration coloring her voice. “And her hands are burnt as if she’d been holding something hot as she died.” 

“As she was killed,” you correct, with the delicacy of a rampaging rhinoceros. 

“She and all the rest,” Pyrope goes on, undeterred. 

“The rest?” 

“The staff.” Pyrope stands up, letting the sheet fall over the broken remains of your mother. “All of them, headless and torn like this.” 

You never knew you could be so full of rage. 

“I suppose you would want me to identify them as well,” you say, voice terse and dangerous. 

“It’s my job, lady,” Pyrope raises her hands – each finger ending in a very pointy claw, all of them painted teal – looking frustrated. “We have no leads and nine headless, mangled bodies. Believe me, Miss Lalonde, no one wants to get to the bottom of this quite as much as I do.” 

“That is irrelevant, Inspector Pyrope,” you say, tilting your chin up at her as you burn with outrage, “now please, lead the way.” 

Grudgingly, she does. 

  


* * *

  


ghostyTrickster [GT] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

GT: are you sure you dont want me to stay with you?  
TT: While your concern is appreciated, John, I am more than capable of handling the situation myself.  
GT: i know  
GT: i just  
GT: you helped so much when my dad died and now here I am  
GT: being the worst friend and doing nothing  
TT: You are doing plenty, believe me.  
GT: really  
TT: Yes.  
TT: So please, continue to hold the fort and ensure that Viceroy Bubbles Von Salamancer is properly looked after, as it takes off such a pressing weight off my mind.  
GT: will do!  
GT: casey will be the happiest salamander in the history of salamandercy when you come back  
TT: Good.  
GT: …i miss you :(  
TT: Your absence has been likewise noted.  
TT: I’ll go home as soon as I can, John, believe me when I say I hold no real fondness for this place.  
TT: But I will not leave until they have captured whoever is responsible for this.  
GT: i know  
GT: this is a thing you have to do and I understand that  
GT: just  
GT: be careful, alright?  
TT: I always am.

tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering ghostyTrickster [GT]

  


* * *

  


“There’s nothing,” Pyrope tells you, after the funeral, sitting across from you in a little café. “Absolutely nothing.” 

The troll looks tired and worn, ridiculous red glasses pulled up above her forehead. You have worked closely to her, to try and figure out what exactly happened the night your mother died. You rented a room in a local hotel and visited the estate daily as the authorities went about their work. There had been no traces of force used to open the manor, and no signs of struggle from any of the victims. And yet, for such a gruesome death, there should have been something, some hint as to what transpired that night. You have been busy sorting out your mother’s affairs, as well as taking care of those of the others who died that night. No relatives or friends, from any of them. Your mother staff seemed to have no one but themselves. Few people came to the funeral, just business acquaintances and the like. They talked about your mother and her people kindly, but distantly. Yes, it was such a tragedy that they had died, but then, death is always a tragedy, isn’t it? 

“Surely there must be something to be done,” you say, feeling your eyes narrow as you start to see where the conversation is going. 

“The chief is getting pressured to close this case,” Pyrope replies, drumming her claws on the table. “He’s been thinking that perhaps it was a freak accident of some sort.” 

“I fail to see how an accident could end up with nine headless corpses, no matter how freakish it might be,” your voice is terse and your lips pull into a light sneer. 

Your eyes, however, remain dry. You’ve yet to cry after you received the news, but the tears will simply not come to you. You take a sip of your tea, not really tasting it, and ignore the turmoil in your mind. 

“You think I haven’t told him that?” Pyrope snorts, raising a hand to rub at her face. “But it’s bad for tourism, this whole business. He’s scheduled a psychic sweep of the whole place, and if they can’t find anything, he’ll declare it an accident of unknown causes.” 

“And then what will happen?” You ask, feeling the fury in the pit of your stomach churn. “Everything will go back to normal?” 

“He hopes,” the troll sneers, lips pulling back to reveal a row of neatly aligned shark-like teeth. “It’ll stifle the rumors and then everyone will forget about it.” 

“Until it happens again,” you point out, arching an eyebrow at her. 

“Yes, well, he’s hoping it won’t, obviously.” 

You like Pyrope. She’s a competent woman and she has been genuinely pushing to get things done. She has been kind, but not attempted to coddle you. You think you could be friends, if the circumstances surrounding your meeting had been different. It is rather disappointing. 

“What will happen,” you ask, “if the psychic sweep turns up nothing and they close the case?” 

“What do you mean?” Her eyes narrow a little as she tilts her head to the side. 

You get the feeling she’s wary of you, or what you might do. 

You smile. 

“Would I be allowed to move back into the estate afterwards?” 

“Miss Lalonde—“ 

“It _is_ mine, technically,” you say, demure. “I finished signing papers this morning. If there is nothing wrong with the house and you cannot find any clues, where’s the harm in moving in? I simply wish to be more in touch with what little memories I have left of my mother.” 

There’s a lengthy pause as Pyrope stares at you. You wonder if she’s a psychic and she’s trying to read your mind, but the insignia and her eyes are teal, and you’re pretty sure she’s too high up the hemospectrum to possess such powers. She looks down at her coffee. 

“Quite understandable, really,” she says eventually, clearly deciphering your meaning. 

You _like_ this troll. 

“Indeed,” you say, smiling placidly. “And should any anomaly present itself, I will be sure to let you know, Inspector Pyrope.” 

“Latula, Miss Lalonde,” she smiles thinly as she pulls out her phone from her sylladex. “I am only Inspector Pyrope when I’m working. I’m just Latula for my friends, especially should they need a little… consultation.  gallantContestant, by the way, if you ever need such a thing.” 

“Rose, Latula,” you say, taking out your own phone. “I’m only Miss Lalonde when dealing with uncooperative authorities. tentacleTherapist.” 

After she finishes adding you to her contact list, she flings the phone back to her sylladex and finishes her coffee in one gulp. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Lalonde,” she says, affecting her voice in what you’ve come to term ‘the official tone’ as she stands up. She gives you a very pointed look before pulling her glasses down to her nose. “I’m afraid there’s not much else I can do. Thank you for the coffee, but I must be off now.” 

“I appreciate your help, Inspector Pyrope,” you nod at her. “Have a nice day.” 

You stay in the café for a while longer, finishing your tasteless, cold tea and staring out the window at the people walking outside. The anger in your gut remains unabated. 

  


* * *

  


The psychic sweep results in nothing. 

You’re not quite sure what you were expecting, but given how things had been turning out, you didn’t allow yourself to put your hopes on it. You stood by the gates as the team of trolls, all rusts and browns, scattered about the lawn and put up a nice lightshow. They said there were no ghosts on the property, which was disconcerting, apparently, given the age and location of the estate, but concluded that whatever happened left no trace they could find. You don’t quite understand what it means, but you decide not to pursue it as a line of investigation. You saw the team off and moved in the day after they declared the estate clear and removed all their police lines. 

Now you stand alone in the foyer, staring impassively at the house and willing it to bare its secrets to you. 

Your mother was a crafty woman, prone to act in unpredictable ways that didn’t always have an alcoholic excuse. You are not entirely sure what you hope to accomplish, by investigating the house on your own, and you are fairly certain it’s more than a little irrational on your part, but you can’t stand the thought of not doing _something_. You walk the corridors, eying the bizarre wizard imagery everywhere and comparing each room to your memories. A few things stand out, a reoccurring motif in threes. Green, blue and red, figurines and paintings and rugs. You never noticed them before, though you remember them always _being_ there before. The pattern repeats all over the house, though you are not sure what – if anything – it might mean. It should mean something, though, that much you know. Because your mother was, when not consumed by drunken stupor, a genius. She built her fortune on her mind, and since you were very small, she taught you the value of pattern recognition. 

Which makes the fact you’re only noticing the pattern now all the more troubling. 

You’re in the kitchens, studying the gleam of steel on the worktable and quietly impressed with the cleaning crew’s job, considering how much blood there was everywhere in the aftermath of the incident, when your cellphone rings. You wait ten seconds before picking up. 

“Hello, John.” 

“Hi, Rose,” your roommate says, voice troubled. “Are you okay?” 

You resist the urge to sigh. 

“I’m perfectly fine,” you say, perhaps a tad sharper than intended. While you’re grateful for his concern, the coddling annoys you. “Is there something you needed?” 

“No, it’s okay,” you can just picture him rubbing the back of his neck, just by the sheepish tone. “It’s just, you said you were going to call me and—“ 

“At six,” you say, now just as sharp as you want it, “John—“ 

“It’s nearly eight, Rose.” 

You pause. The clock on the wall reads 4:13, precisely. You stare at it, waiting for the minute hand to move, but it remains stubbornly in place. Inwardly you swear. Then think. Then swear again. 

“Rose?” 

“I’ll call you tomorrow morning, John,” you say, almost demure, “I lost track of time.” 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” He sounds uncertain. “I could drop by and help, if you want.” 

“I appreciate the sentiment, but that won’t be necessary,” you say crisply, “We will talk tomorrow.” 

There’s an almost imperceptible pause that makes you dread he’ll argue. You like your roommate a lot. John Egbert is one of the best friends you’ve ever had. But when he gets in his head to be stubborn, he is the most stubborn man on the face of earth. It’s so very obnoxious and you’ve yet to figure out how to break him of the abominable habit. 

“Talk to you tomorrow, then!” He says, cheer almost convincing. “G’night, Rose.” 

“Good night, John.” 

You slide your cellphone back into your sylladex and storm out of the room, looking for clocks. You find one in the foyer, also stopped at 4:13. You decide to head to the library, rather than upstairs, as you remember the monumental grandfather clock your mother had by the fireplace. You make your way to it, not quite surprised to find the clock stopped – 5:49. The library is quiet and somber, eerie in a way you’ve never been able to put to words, but those qualities are precisely what made it such a comfortable refuge when you were a child. You stare at the face of the clock and pinch the bridge of your nose in annoyance. 

“Mother,” you say to no one in particular, “tell me you didn’t.” 

You look around the room before turning back to the clock. You reach for the minute hand and start winding it around slowly. To your surprise, you hear a click much sooner than anticipated. A small compartment at the base of the clock has slid open, revealing a small key. You arch an eyebrow at it, as if it had personally offended you. You look back up at the hands, taking note of the time – 6:12 – before continuing winding it until it reaches 4:13. There’s another click, louder. You keep your eyes on the clock and resist the urge to yell at your mother for this, before you turn to investigate the source of the sound. 

A secret passage seems to have opened between two bookshelves. 

A secret passage. 

Of course. 

“I do hope you are both, watching and enjoying the show, mother dearest,” you say, somewhat snidely, before you step into the dark, narrow corridor. 

There’s a door at the end that’s mercifully not locked. You take a deep breath, trying to stifle the childish excitement of discovery, and step into the room. It’s a study of some kind. The walls look old and ruinous, with several strange trinkets strewn all over the place. At the center, right beneath a hanging light bulb, there’s an imposing desk that you doubt your mother purchased for herself. The wood looks old and the dark lacquered finish seems at odds with her penchant for white, sleek surfaces. You look behind it to see a glimmering, golden double trident resting on the wall. You arch an eyebrow at it, as it seems to be almost a replica of the troll Empress’ chosen weapon, except this one has twirling designs in fuchsia, all along the length of the staff. There are flecks of red on it, like a glow you can’t quite see clearly. 

Then you notice the book. 

You wonder, honestly, how could you have possibly not noticed the book first. A large tome, almost a foot and a half tall and nearly two long, it is decorated with an intricate pattern on what you have the oddest notion to be skin. Human skin, with accents of troll hide. You don’t know how you know, but you’re certain of it. The clasp is off center, made out of skulls, which might or might not be real bone, arranged in a circle around a strange symbol you don’t recognize. 

You know, intellectually, that this is the right time to call Pyrope and tell her you might have found her a new lead. Perhaps add a few snide remarks about having taken you but a day to do it, without fancy troll super powers and all. But you can’t make yourself reach for your cellphone and dial. Instead, you find yourself reaching out to touch the book, fingers stretched and breathing forgotten somewhere in your lungs. The symbol on the clasp glows ominously, before the whole thing sprawls open on the desk, pages fluttering as if they were guts spilling out of a bloated stomach. You wait a moment, expecting to hear thunder outside, but the silence is absolute. You then study the book somewhat. It looks a lot emptier than you were expecting, like most of its pages are missing. You confirm that by seeing the remnants near the spine. You wonder if your mother did that. You page back to the beginning, staring a little at the lines in Alternian script. You frown at it, because your Alternian has never been particularly good, but the moment you squint at it, you can feel a pull from inside out, a harsh tug under your skin. 

And then the letters bleed and change, until they’re all neatly slanted to the right, the calligraphy undoubtedly your mother’s. 

You should definitely call Pyrope. 

Instead, you slide into the armchair behind the desk and, with your heart stuck in your throat, you begin to read. 


	2. Chapter I: The Chosen One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, once upon a fateful night, Meenah Peixes finds misery and destiny in some old, desert ruins.

_I had no idea what was going on. I didn’t really give a fuck, either. It was all adventure and treasure and another chance to escape the stifling walls of the palace and the thousand little shitty demands everyone had. I craved freedom, but instead I got my ass enslaved by knowledge. You don’t know shit, but you’ll either learn and adapt, or ignore it and die. Now I know all there is to know, and I’m bound to serve it to the bitter end. All those things you like to think are just whispers in the dark, all the things that exist behind the veil._

_Flesh and bone, kids, it ain’t matter none._

_Like you, I was once a fool._

  


* * *

  


**Chapter I: The Chosen One.**

  


* * *

  


You look over your shoulder, just to make sure for the umpteenth time that no one’s following you. 

Above, the moons are waned almost to the point of disappearing, two thin smiles in the horizon. The heat of the day has not yet dissipated, but you expect the temperature to drop visibly. You should probably find shelter before then, or go back. It won’t be enough to kill you, of course – you, who has the imperial hue rushing in your veins – but it will be inconvenient. Everything is inconvenient, really, when you’re so far outside the scope of normal trolls. Half a sweep ago, you stood before your predecessor and defeated her in single combat, tearing off the crown from her bloodied corpse. You didn’t put it on, though. You didn’t want it. You fought the Empress not out of ambition, but survival. It was your destiny, shared with all of those whose blood rivals yours. Your lusus, that was her lusus and the lusus of all your caste, raised you with that one certainty hanging above your head: to win and rule or lose and die. 

You’ve never wanted to rule, but you also never wanted to die. When the time came, you took your weapon and gave it your best, not out of some misguided desire to claim the throne, but a feral will to survive. Now you’re saddled with a throne you don’t want and a planet who clamors for you to look after them, as if your blood somehow gifted you with the ability to know what is best for them. The joke is that you barely know how to look after yourself. You’ve always loved gold and treasure and the good things in life, but what your friends never understood about you, is that your ambition is to _make_ your own wealth, not to inherit it or be given it by virtue of something you can’t control. 

Standing at the edge of a jagged cliff, you witness the desert sprawling endlessly before you. The colorful dunes swoop and slope gently, with just the faintest breeze painting trails behind them. You’ve never stepped into it, before. Your constant escapes from your retainers always end at the edge of the death trap that dominates one third of the land. Monsters of all kinds roam the sands, even those who go as far to look like trolls. You’ve read the stories and sat through lecture after lecture, from the very moment you stepped away from the sea and walked into the halls of the imperial palace, all trying to foster into you not respect, but blatant fear. It seems stupid, to you, the notion of a ruler that is afraid of their own land. You don’t want to be a ruler, but you want even less to be a fool. 

You leap off the cliff with ease, air and gravity posing little resistance to you, after you grew up among the crushing pressures of the deep. You land below, feet cushioned by the sand, and take a moment to feel it between your fingers. Then you start walking into the sea of sand with the same confidence you would into the ocean that saw you grow. The desert doesn’t scare you. Nothing really scares you. You don’t think anyone really understands that, how there’s nothing out there that truly scares you. There’s nothing in this world that can stop you, if you put your mind to it, and the sooner your subjects understand it, the better. 

So armed with certainty in your own strength, you march forward into the dunes, ready to explore what the desert has in store for you. 

  


* * *

  


The voices start out faint enough you’re pretty sure you’re imagining them, but the further you get into the desert, the stronger the voices are. You twitch as they echo, building behind your eyelids and making your fins twitch. 

You don’t know the voices, but you recognize your name. You’ve heard it in a thousand different tones, coming from a thousand different voices. In awe and horror and flattery. From rusty seadweller courtiers and terrified lowblood slaves. From friends and enemies and neither. 

But you’ve never heard it quite so ominously as this. It would be funny, if you could pinpoint this prank on someone, but the desert sprawls around you, aimless and empty, with just the sky and the wind and the sand crowding around you, laughing at the shivers crawling down your spine. 

Perhaps it’s foolish, to follow disembodied voices that might very well be the result of the heat getting to you, but when you find yourself standing outside a pillar circle, you tell yourself foolishness is often at the heart of adventure. And you love adventure, more so that which ends with old gold enriching your hoard. The pillars are crude stones with lines scrawled on them, like signs rather than words. You squint at them as you step into the circle, the voices growing louder with each step you take. 

“Oh fuck,” you snarl, as light gathers at the tip of each pillar, right as you stand at the center, and bolts of colorful light arc between them, like the psionics you’ve seen lowbloods use. 

Then the built up lighting strikes you, and the world goes dark. 

The last coherent thought you have, before dropping into the abyss, is that your advisors will whine about this for eons. 

  


* * *

  


In a burst of light, up is up and down is down again, and you find yourself standing atop a little circular platform inside a very ruinous block. There are lit torches, bizarrely enough, despite the scent of old dust permeating everything in sight. Carefully, you step down from your perch onto the floor, and find it solid beneath your feet. You take stock and find yourself with pretty much all limbs still attached. In your hand, the weight of the culling fork is a welcome, comforting company. That’s good. You look around, squinting at the strange pictures craved on the rock walls, and realize the only way out is through a rickety old ladder made of half-rotten wood. That’s bad. You don’t think the way out will be going deeper, but you don’t have many options. You know better than to try and punch a hole in the ceiling, if by any chance you’re still in the desert. Though you could very easily break the stones, that’d only make sand rain on your head, and the last thing you need is to pick fucking colorful grains of bullshit out of your gills. 

Down it is, then. 

You take it slow, not really in a hurry to make the ladder break under your weight, and drop off as soon as you’re sure the fall won’t kill you. Surprisingly, the corridor that opens up before you is well lit, with torches that burn somewhat ominously hanging from the walls. It takes you a moment to realize what’s so strange about the fires, beyond the fact they remain lit, despite the general air of abandonment in this place: the fire makes no sound, as it dances atop each stick, and the smoke has no scent to it. They give light, like any other torch would, but it’s empty and artificial, and it makes your fins splay on each side of your face. 

There are corpses strewn along the length of the corridor, blackened, withered husks that look troll-like enough to make you harbor the hope you might not be too far away from home. Then you wonder if whatever killed the poor idiots is still lurking about. With nowhere else to go except back – and you categorically refuse to go back – you step further into the corridor, only to watch the corpse furthest away from you twitch and turn, and slowly rise, as if animated by a strange force. It shuffles forward somewhat awkwardly, arms stretched and hands half curled into thin, menacing claws. 

You don’t stop to ask questions – only fools who want to die stop to ask questions, in situations like these – and instead twirl the culling fork, ready to skewer the creature back to blissful sleep. It’s laughably weak, body thrown this or that way under the strength of your blows, but it keeps standing up and reaching for you, even after you hit its head hard enough to make it splatter. You need to rip off its arms and stab the still writhing chest to make it stop. And then it seems to burst into fire without the flames, vanishing in a loud, hissing light that eats up the remains of the corpse and leaves nothing behind. 

You get a chance to see the effect again, as two other creatures spring up to try and surprise you, but they fall to your strength with relative ease. When you’re done, you go over the other corpses and methodically beat them into an unpleasant brown paste, just to make sure none of the fuckers are getting any ideas about playing smart. Then you study the corridor and its eerie torches, trying to piece together the meaning of the carvings and the designs decorating the walls and the floor. In doing so, you find a cube of granite half hidden in the tiles near the only door. A closer look lets you see it’s relatively loose, so you pull it out and find it has a sign carved on all four sides, one that matches the strange markings on the pillars and glows with a faint lowblood red hue. Habit makes you smile, as you shove the cube into your bag with a smirk. 

You’ve looted many ruins, in your relatively short life. You don’t care about the history or the glory of old piles of rocks some fools decided to rearrange to suit their needs, eons ago, but you know how they work, and you also know they often hide pretty valuable treasures in their depths. Trolls of old used to build temples like labyrinths, full of traps and puzzles that guarded their deepest secrets. In your experience, they’re always deadly enough to keep looters – like yourself – away, but still physically possible to solve, for the sake of the original builders being able to return and retrieve their prizes. No one ever builds a door only to lock it forever. Every seal must necessarily have a key. 

Energized by the discovery and the possibility of treasure to be found, you open the door and face a new horde of undead creatures with a wide smirk. Even in bulk, they cannot stop you, and you’re starting to find the sound their wasted remains make, as they dissolve into light, quite cathartic. Once the silence returns, you scrutinize the block and it’s not long before you find another cube, disguised as part of a wall, this time. The sign on it is different from the other one, but still matching the ones in the pillars. It glows a midblood green, instead. 

You’re not even surprised when the next block yields yet another group of monsters and yet another granite cube, this one emblazoned with the last of the signs outside, its glow a muted highblood blue. There are no more doors to open though, only another unpleasant-looking ladder further into the depths of the ruins. You take a moment to study the cubes you’ve found, and to drink some water from your bag, before deigning to go down. The voices, still crooning your name in breathless whispers, quiet down somewhat when you’re moving, which only makes them seem more nagging, when you choose to take your time instead. 

You should, perhaps, be a lot more worried than you are, but it’s just another adventure. Another puzzle to sort, another pile of ancient riches to loot, another great story to tell your friends and scandalize your retainers with. You leap off the ladder with a soft grunt, braids swinging behind you as you navigate the new corridor before you, which boasts the novelty of a thick fog gathering around your ankles and hiding your feet from view. You’re far from impressed, even as yet another wave of grunting creatures rise from it to try and tear off your limbs. Your culling fork makes short work of them, the prongs gleaming in the torchlight as they drip the ugly brown paste these things seem to have in place of blood. On one end of the corridor, the door is blocked by bars, which you could probably snap if you really wanted to, but for the sake of exploring first, you decide to leave them be for now. The door on the opposite end of the hallway is invitingly unobstructed, as it is. 

You let out a whistle, as the short corridor behind it opens into a larger block, with a high ceiling vault. There are carvings on the walls, intricate circles and spirals surrounding each of the three signs, as each glows with the same sickly light. There is a forth one, too, one that wasn’t outside. It’s seadweller purple and you find yourself repulsed by it, somehow. You swing the culling fork as a pack of monsters, larger in number than all the ones you’ve fought so far combined, stands up awkwardly to try and stop you. Out of spite, you stab them with far more force than necessary, grinning as they grope about for their missing heads and limbs, after you tear them off with ease. They even hit each other, in their confusion, arms swinging wildly to try and get you. One of them grabs a braid and you stab it in the chest, tearing it in half with a sharp twist of the culling fork, snorting in annoyance. 

At long last, just as you start working up a good sweat, the last of the creatures crumbles away into light, just as you stub your toes on yet another cube hidden in the fog. Four blocks, four signs, four colors, four cubes four walls and on each wall a very innocent-looking, square-shaped hole. It doesn’t take a genius to decipher the key to escape the block, though you wonder if then the creatures were made to guard this place, and if so, who was so incompetent to think those weak things would do any good. As the last cube slides into place, a loud clank echoes in the distance, and you snort to yourself as you go back to find the bars on the other door are gone. You pause long enough to shake your head, then step forward as the voices clamor once more. 

“Just clamp up that shit,” you mutter under your breath, as you stomp into the next block, which is claustrophobically small. “…you’re not glubbin’ serious.” 

The reason it’s so small, you reckon, is because there’s a life-size statue of yourself standing right smack in the middle of it, culling fork and all. You squint at the braids and the bag and the tiny details that are rough and unfinished, but only make it seem more eerie. After a moment of hesitation, you prod it with your culling fork, half expecting it to spring to life and attack you. The only thing that happens is that one of the braids snaps off, crashing into the floor and breaking into pieces. The sound makes you startle and you swear some more, because just as the pieces roll to the ground, the wall on the back lowers just a sliver. You squint at the wall and the statue and the entire fucking thing, before grabbing your culling fork with both hands and swinging it hard at the head of your rocky doppelganger. 

You could probably just move the statue to the side and release the pressure switch obviously holding the back wall in place. But you find the mockery… well, mocking and annoying. And you’re fed up with playing by the rules. You smash the statue to pieces, each chunk of rock falling with a sound more satisfying than the last, until the wall is lowered completely and the floor is covered in dusty pebbles. You’re going to loot the shit out of this place and then find out who built it and retroactively declare them heretics by the power granted to you by your divine Imperial right. 

Fuckers. 

The next block is more monsters, which splatter against the walls when you smack them, not even giving them the dignity of being impaled by your culling fork, and a large, circular stone glowing faintly in a corner. When you reach out to examine it, it sinks under the barest pressure of your hand, and for a moment you think you’ve fucked yourself, as the wall you walked over to enter this block raises abruptly, but then you notice three pillars raising from the ground, in the same formation as the ones out there in the sand, with the same weird signs on them. The voices are gone now, their silence more poignant than their purring, eager tones. Perhaps you’ve finally stumbled upon an exit from this bizarre place. You’re a little bummed at the idea, though, because you haven’t found anything truly worth keeping, and personally, you don’t consider any adventure without souvenirs to be a _real_ adventure. Cautiously, though perhaps not as cautiously as you ought to, you step in the middle of the pillars, wincing as the light gathers and spirits you away like it did before. 

It’s not the desert that greets you, when the light dies out. Though only belatedly you consider the possibility of the sun being up now, and feeling relief at not having to deal with it. The new block is rather dreary, the strange mute torches nowhere to be found. Instead, the only light is the one coming from the three floating artifacts at the center of the block, each one placed above a stone pedestal, and each one glowing a distinct hue. 

“…well, it’s somefin,” you snort to yourself, stepping closer to examine them. 

A red crab-like claw, a blue jellyfish-like critter and a strange necklace-like sigil in green. You figure if anything else, you might be able to sell them off to some sucker for a pretty penny. With a shrug, you reach to grab the closest one, unfazed by the gleaming green light, but the moment you touch it, you find yourself in such deep agony you can’t even scream as you die. 

In the darkness curled deep within your soul, you feel an explosion of madness that lights up your veins and burns off the imperial hue, leaving your blood a toxic green. But it’s not a midblood green, you giggle to yourself, staring at your hands and seeing through them just like you find yourself staring through the veil into the madness of your Mistress. It’s the green of Xel’lotath, the sacred hue that proclaims her owner of this and all the other worlds. Just like her, however, you’re split in half, body, mind and soul. Torn apart and reshapen and given purpose even as you snarl and demand your freedom back. 

“I live and serve,” you hiss, and your Mistress purrs as your body, blackened into shadows, unfolds from the floor. Your hair, free from its braids, curls everywhere, twisting and rippling like a new, sentient limb. In your hand, your culling fork is white and green, bone and madness, crooked like the monster that owns you. “For now,” you add, between teeth, even as the last of your mind slips down the spiral of grimdark insanity. 

Knowledge and power boil in your gut and your pan, and the smile at least remains sincere. You’ve always enjoyed the prospect of ruining someone’s day, after all. 

  


* * *

  


_It’s been long, now, and I’ve learned much more than you can imagine. I was a stupid kid, when I walked into those ruins, but Xel’lotath has made me anew, over and over, with each new madness I taste and conquer. There’s no greater enemy than yourself, deranged and raving mad, and that’s exactly who you’ll fight, if you try to stand against me._

_I was once a fool, but no more._

  


* * *

  


Your name is Rose Lalonde, and as you finish reading the last line, you find yourself scowling at the ominous book with something like drawn-out annoyance. 

You don’t know if it’s the presentation or the sloppy narration or the unnecessary fish puns, but you itch for a red pen and a chance to rewrite the whole thing. It’s engaging enough, admittedly, considering you didn’t put down the narration in disgust after the first line, and there’s something vivid and all-consuming in the words that, despite their clumsy construction, makes them form crisp and clear pictures in your mind, almost as if you were watching it all unfold. 

As it is, you’re not quite ready to give in to the skepticism coiling about in the back of your head. You grew up reading about ancient gods and dark powers that rule the universe beyond the comprehension or input of science and reason, but despite the grand production, you’re not quite ready to give up the basis of reality as you know it. 

Only a fool believes everything she reads, after all. 

But this book and its morbid story, whether it’s fantasy or not, is the only clue you have, to unravel the mysteries surrounding your mother’s death. You could call Pyrope, now, but it feels silly, when all you have is a freakish book and a myth-like account of an Empress you’re not even sure ever existed. 

And deep down, so far down you viciously refuse to acknowledge it, you want to know what happens next. 

There are no more pages to browse, however, and you finger the remnants still stuck on the spine of the book as you look around the room. Then you stand up, keeping an eye on the book as if waiting for it to vanish the moment you’re not looking, and ponder the chances of your mother – because of course she had a hand in this, she _had_ to – hiding the remaining pages nearby. Your mother was a genius, but most of her genius depended on doing things no one else would think of, simply because they defied logic too much. You grew up learning to side-step the plotholes in her disastrous personal narrative, though, so you’re not quite surprised to realize the old parchment in the glass frame hanging by the door matches the style of the pages in the book. 

“Well,” you muse to yourself, if only to fill the oppressive silence with something, as you pull down the frame and carefully open it to retrieve the contents, “if you hid all the pages this well, Mother, it will not take long to piece the whole thing together.” 

Your smile is wry with bitterness around the edges, as you unfold the pages and place them in the book. You refuse to be surprised when the remnants attach themselves to the pages with a quiet, almost imperceptible hiss, more so when no matter how hard you look, you can’t find the place where they’re joined. 

You give the book one last ugly glare, before focusing on the new pages. Like before, the ink melts into familiar words once you stare at it long enough. Unlike before, the original glyphs were most certainly not Alternian. 

With another weary sigh, you gather your wits and begin to read once more. 


End file.
